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Tuesday, February 22, 2022

New Release: George Douglas Anderson THE FACTORY OF ECCENTRIC POETICS (Holy & Intoxicated Publications, 2021) 20 pages


In this new chapbook, Anderson veers away from his usual narratives & portraits. The poetry here is more abstract. It includes many found and cut & paste poems, sometimes influenced by his students. The front cover is beautifully illustrated by the Swedish writer and artist Henry Denander. 

 

Find Jason Gerrish’s recent interview about the chap here: 

 

https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2022/01/jason-garish-interviews-george-douglas.html

 


A couple of blurbs about the chapbook:

 

 The Factory of Eccentric Poetics

George Douglas Anderson

 

Poets, are mostly cowardly, that is, once a poet hits on a form/style to comfortably put their words across, they dig a hole and jump into it: (myself included) it feels safe and secure.

 

George Douglas Anderson digs tunnels and you never know where the tunnels will be taking you, until you are there: as a Small Press Publisher, when I request and receive a manuscript from George, I know one thing for certain, it will be quality: ‘The Factory of Eccentric Poetics’ is exactly that: from the hazy, ghostly cover art work from the ever brilliant Henry Denander, depicting a trumpet playing jazz musician, drowning in a flush and array of uplifting colours, to the final poem, ‘The Thing Itself’, the reader is easily, smoothly locked into the rhythm of the book, as the poems lunge and plunge like the soulful breath of Chet Baker or glide silk-like, like a haunting Miles Davis solo: the time signatures roam freely, without hesitation: passion and compassion drives this book: ‘The Parched Grass’ ‘Danger Falling Man’ ‘His Brain is a Fish’ ‘The Cult of the Amateur’ ‘Skinned’ to name a few, are simply, strangely enchanting and captivating.

 

Dig ‘The Factory of Eccentric Poetics’: dig the works of George Douglas Anderson:

 

John D Robinson

Poet and Publisher.

 

 

The Factory Of Eccentric Poeticsis the latest chapbook by author George Douglas Anderson. In this collection of eighteen new and abstract poems, Anderson explores a new poetic voice, veering from the authorial and objective narrative style he established in earlier chaps and in his full-length book of poems: The Rough End Of The Pineapple.In his own words, Anderson says,“The chapbook is an attempt to affirm but also to subvert post-modern ways of thinking…”.

 

The poem A Bee Collecting Honey is a sequence of engaging images, which defy a linear interpretation. It is the first poem in the collection that had me consider: Can a poem be a collage? 

 

Anderson says, of A Bee Collecting Honey,“The chronology of the poem’s narrative is deliberately thrown into disarray and instead is revealed in fragments. It uses compressed images and associations to reveal a woman’s tormented life which has been tragically cut short.”

 

Several poems in this collection read like a collage; and if a poem can be described as a crazy quilt, it is Anderson’s poem Skinned, which he says of the title, “…refers to a recent trend to cut out the full back tattoo panels of heavily tattooed corpses and to preserve them as Art.”

 

The images in this piece engage me so successfully, I become hell bent on interpreting them collectively, but Skinned defies a linear interpretation. I feel the poem calls for an escape from the material world, for a spiritual release. Anderson says of the poem“…I perhaps imagined the words, like the deceased’s tattooed skin expressing a montage of feelings and experiences.”

 

The risks Anderson takes cutting from usual narrative style, make The Factory Of Eccentric Poetics a rewarding read. They are a postmodern patchwork that reveal a diversity of spirit and a troubled world of tortured souls.

 

Jason Garish



Limited edition: 25 signed and numbered. Only 5 left to dispatch.




 Buy the book here direct through PayPal: georgedanderson8@gmail.com for $5 AUD  plus postage.


Postage: Australia wide: $2.20

                USA / Europe: $14.60 (I'll throw in another chap)

Saturday, February 12, 2022

Featuring the Words & Photography of Rob Plath




on repeat 


you finally get home 

in the dark 

52nd birthday 

alone


after yr car madly shook 

b/c of ice stuck in the tires 

from the blizzard 


yr 3 lbs of grey mush 

rattling in yr skull 

as you ran errands 


you pass beneath icicles 

hanging from 

the lopsided awning 

like long fangs 

outside the door 

to yr little place 


but yr not worried 

about teeth 

yr made out 

of bite wounds 


standing in the kitchen 

you see a litter of bugs 

in the globe 

of the light above 


a bright crystal ball 

of burnt corpses 


the future isn’t propaganda 

the future is a litter of insects 

feasting on what’s left of you 

bite marks & all 


the sky tonight 

is fangs & corpses 


yr not hungry 

yr not thirsty 

yr not anything 


you just sit quietly 

cold elbows upon 

the rickety 

secondhand table 


in a questionable 

wooden chair 

on the verge 

of collapse 


listening to death 

over there 

in the blue corner 

scraping its blade 

over a dark stone 


the song nobody 

wants to hear


the tune that’s 

on repeat in yr head 

24/7








boy mummy 


in 4th grade i was obsessed w/ egyptian mummies 


i’d get books on them when the teacher gave me a pass to the school library 


i loved reading about them & stared at the photographs for hours 


they seemed so untouchable, preserved for thousands of years 


i kept renewing the small stack of books 


studying about mummies took my mind off bullies of the school halls too 


sometimes i imagined the boy mummies from the books opening their eyes & being my friends 


i often daydreamed about the mysterious tales 

& how if you disturbed a mummy there was a terrible curse cast on the intruder 


that year, i pretended i was a boy mummy 


alive & moving thru halls, skinny & stiff & petrified as usual


my shape wrapped in layers of protective bandages

just my eyes visible 


& even tho occasionally the red from a fat lip or a nose bleed seeped thru my gauze 


it helped to imagine the unlucky bullies of the school halls being hellishly hexed








cold mashed potatoes 


standing in the kitchen 

eating cold mashed potatoes 

out of the pot 


1:26 pm 

tuesday 

of 

the longest month 


you laugh as the worms 

calling yr name 

outnumber the people 

calling yr name 


& the future isn’t so much 

as bright 

as it is glistening 

in segments 

wiggling yr way 


& as you spoon another heap 

of cold mashed potatoes 

into yr skull 

you grin 


standing alone 

on the stage 

in the theatre 

of laughable terror







unclean 


i turn off the valve 

& stand before the veil 

i’ll never get clean 

trapped in this suit of skin 

i gaze thru dozens of beads 

dotting the torn shower curtain 

strange beast w/ many eyes 

not created for the world

i daydream about standing here 

until my flesh falls to my feet 

& my organs liquify 

disappearing down the drain 

& how only then i’d be ready 

to enter the world again 

an untrembling skeleton







bio: 
rob plath punches the keys of the poetry machine like a velociraptor is behind his back. he lives alone w/ his cat & stays out of trouble. 








Tuesday, February 1, 2022

Featuring Martin Appleby


WISDOM

 

 

I thought you were supposed

to grow wiser as you grow older?

Is that just a fallacy?

A myth that people tell themselves

to trick the brain into believing it?

I am either wise to the con

or my own brain has double bluffed

itself into believing it to be a con,

because I am none the fucking wiser

than I was at any point before.

If I could go back in time and give

my fifteen year old self some advise

it would be to not listen to advise

because most of it is bollocks - 

what a catch twenty two that would be:

to take the advice and forgo any other

or forgo it and listen to the rest.

Fuck. I told you I wasn't fucking wise.

In all honesty, if I could go back now

and re-do this whole life thing again

I would drink more, party harder,

take more drugs, and probably 

not make it to the age that I am now.

Wisdom is in the imagination of the older.

 

 

 

 

SOBER

 

 

I would probably give up 

drinking if it were not for

annoying “sober” people

preaching about how sober they are -

and this is no sleight against

recovering addicts -

but people that used to drink casually

and decided to stop

and now act high and mighty

sitting atop their high horse

looking down at those of us

who still drink casually.

You'd think they were on the brink

of the abyss and pulled themselves

back from the edge.

My biggest fear is that I, too 

would become one of those people

like ex-smokers that love telling you

how easy it was for them to quit

or vegans that remind you constantly

that they're vegan yet they were

the same ones that used to mock you

for being vegetarian as they

polished off plates of meat -

they can all get in the fucking sea.

 

 

 

 

 

WASTER

 

 

I am wasting away

under a pile of waste

my brain space

wasted, taken up

with wasteful thoughts

and witty retorts

for insults I lambaste

myself with

This waste land is treacherous

one false move

one wasted motion

could so quickly

compromise its integrity

and how easy it would be

for the twisted part of me 

to watch the whole thing collapse

again

watch everything crash and burn

as if I haven't learned

a thing

what a waste

this journey would have been.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bio: Martin Apleby is a punk, poet, vegetarian, cider drinking scumbag from Hastings, England. He edits Paper and Ink Literary Zine and runs Scumbag Press – scumbagpress.co.